Page 101 of Mourner for Hire
“No.” He laughs.
I push my wet hair out of my face. “Lucy dropped off food, and I had just gotten out of the shower, and when she was leaving, she knocked over a flower pot, and when I went to go fix it, the towel got stuck on this nail on the inside of the doorway, and the door slammed shut, taking the towel with it. Then the door was locked, and apparently, I hate fresh air because none of the windows are open.” I shrug.
He glances up at the bedroom window. It’s just barely cracked, but the height of it would have made it almost impossible for me to jump up and open it enough for me to get through it alone.
“Want me to lift you up?” he asks.
“Why? So you can have a full view of my ass. No, thanks.”
He stares down at me, and his jaw pulses. The expression in his eyes—the one that normally looks like he wants to skin me alive—is nonexistent. There’s almost a tenderness there—the hard edges of his amber-colored eyes feel more like warm honey. The way I remember them the night he?—
“Give me a boost,” he says, interrupting my train of thought.
“What? Are you serious? I can’t lift you up.”
“I’m joking.” He smirks, reaching the lip of the window and sliding it open all the way. He grips the sill and hoists his body up easily, but managing to get his six-foot-three body through the regular human-sized window is far less graceful. He tips forward with a shriek and a groan, his legs and feet hanging out of the window until it’s just his feet, and then finally, those disappear, too.
I don’t know if we’ve exactly been playing nice, but this will suffice for me, considering I’m keeled over with laughter. “Are you okay?”
He pokes his head out. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyebrows are smug, but he almost smiles. “I just did you a favor.”
“Right, and I am so grateful. Can you unlock the door, please?”
“I could.” He turns his mouth down, considering. “Or I could go through your shit and find all the paraphernalia.”
“Have fun searching,” I answer, not at all letting him bait me.
He cocks a smug eyebrow. “Dare me?”
“Open the door, dipshit. I need to put on some underwear.”
THIRTY-FIVE
DOMINIC
I’m a goner.
Vada is…Fuck.
I have to get it together. My heartbeat needs to slow, and the blood rushing to my groin needs to head back to my head by the time I make my way to the front door to open it.
But I can’t stop replaying her every curve in my mind. The freckles on her stomach. The tan lines on her hip bones. Her tanned skin. Her perfect?—
Yeah, I can’t go there. Not when I’m trying to calm down and stop straining against my zipper.
Just before I reach the door, I freeze.
The peony wallpaper in the kitchen nook is gone. Replaced by a warm white paint. A bohemian beaded chandelier has taken the brass one’s place, which now sits discarded in a box in the corner.
I step inside and really look.
The pictures are gone. Just patched holes and stacked frames remain. The rose-colored pillows: missing. Carpet: torn up. Hardwood: exposed and barely walkable. Cabinets off their hinges. Trim removed. The wallpaper I specifically asked her to keep is nowhere to be seen.
It doesn’t feel like renovation.
It feels like erasure.
This place is a disaster.
